


the peace of wild things

by abovetheruins



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demon Deals, Demon Shane Madej, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Protective Shane Madej
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 07:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14564463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: Do not be afraidruns on a loop in his head, over and over until his brain is practically buzzing with it.Do not be afraid, do not be afraid, you’re just talking to a fucking demon, Ryan, nothing to be scared of.The candles around him flicker and go out, all at once, and Ryan shrieks, jerking his hands away from the planchette and scrambling to his feet.“I’m done, I’m done,” he mutters, shaking the numbness from his fingers and putting as much space between himself and the Ouija board as he can. “Fuck this bridge, let’s get out of here.”OrIn which Ryan makes a deal with a demon.





	1. encounter

**Author's Note:**

> You know you're in deep with a new fandom when you start two WIPs in less than a week.
> 
> Consider this my love letter to demon!Shane, who I adore. Also this is nowhere near as sinister or dark as it might seem at first. I just love the thought of Ryan being terrified of demon!Shane only to find out that he's basically the chillest demon ever. Enjoy?

“So. I guess I’m doing this.” Ryan shoots the camera a tremulous smile before placing his fingers on the planchette, despite every instinct he has screaming at him to _back the fuck away_ from the Ouija board and to get the fuck off the bridge while he’s at it. “This is actually a thing that’s happening.” 

TJ gives him a thumbs up but otherwise remains silent, hidden behind the lens of his camera. Ryan spares a moment to hope that it can’t pick up on how badly his fingers are shaking. He can already imagine the comments that are going to come flooding in once this episode goes up, especially after the spirit box session he’d had in the forest. He’ll have to review the footage to be sure, but he’s certain he heard screaming, not to mention the rustling of god-knows-what in the darkness around them. He’d resisted the urge to run screaming back to the car, but only by a slim margin, and he’s sure the audience will pick up on that. That’s half the draw of the show, really – how goddamn terrified he gets.

_Anything for views, huh, Ryan?_ he thinks, a half-hysterical giggle lodged in his throat. It’s a perfectly natural response, considering he’s camped out in the middle of a demon-infested bridge, a circle of salt and candles around him and a Ouija board at his fingertips.

“Is there anybody here?” he asks, grateful when his voice doesn’t crack. He’s too fucking nervous, has been since he stepped out of the car and saw the bridge. There’s just something about it that rubs him the wrong way, something more than just rumors and his own paranoia. There’s an oppressive air to the area that makes him shift uncomfortably on the wooden planks, the back of his neck prickling as he continues to attempt to draw out whatever entity might call the place home. 

He gets nothing but silence for his efforts. Unbidden, his eyes trail to the circle of salt enclosing him and the board, and he reaches out, saying, “I’m just gonna – gonna give you an opening here, okay?” for the camera’s benefit. He makes sure the water gun he’d brought is within easy grabbing distance; ridiculous as it looks, he’s grateful to have it – and the holy water he’d filled it with – on hand.

He presses his fingers back to the planchette. “My name is Ryan. Can you tell me your name?”

For a moment there’s nothing, just the heavy air and the soft huffs of his own breath, until –

“ _Holyshit_.” There’s no push or pull to it, not from him, but the planchette is _moving_ , inching across the array of letters on the board in stilted, tiny increments. Ryan’s mouth runs dry. “Okay, that’s happening, you’re moving, _fuck_.” 

Despite his mounting terror he’s captivated by the sensation, the planchette shifting over the board through no will of his own, though fear wins out once it finally draws to a stop over the first letter. 

“S?” Ryan breathes, his throat like sandpaper. “Your name starts with an S?” Sweat beads along his hairline as he waits for the next letter, inwardly praying that the planchette doesn’t drift to a _T_ next. Later he’ll probably laugh at himself for being so stricken with terror over a name like _Steve_ , but in the moment humor is the farthest thing from his mind. 

_Do not be afraid_ runs on a loop in his head, over and over until his brain is practically buzzing with it. _Do not be afraid, do not be afraid, you’re just talking to a fucking demon, Ryan, nothing to be scared of._

The candles around him flicker and go out, all at once, and Ryan shrieks, jerking his hands away from the planchette and scrambling to his feet. 

“I’m done, I’m done,” he mutters, shaking the numbness from his fingers and putting as much space between himself and the Ouija board as he can. “Fuck this bridge, let’s get out of here.” 

Bless TJ and the rest of the crew – they don’t give him any shit for bailing or try to coax him back to the board. Instead they just set about clearing the detritus from the bridge and packing their equipment away, talking quietly amongst themselves. Ryan doesn’t feel better until they’ve put a few miles between their car and the bridge, and even then it’s not by much. There’s a restless itch beneath his skin, even after they’ve made it to their hotel and gotten settled in for the night. Ryan lays beneath stiff hotel sheets, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the dry sting behind his eyes. He’s exhausted, like he usually is after investigations, but his mind is still running a mile a minute and refusing to let him rest.

His eyes flick between the shadowy corners of the room and the lamp he hasn’t shored up the courage to flick off yet. He won’t be able to sleep with it on, but his mind melts at the thought of plunging the room into total darkness. 

He should be happy. Even with the aborted Ouija session he had still managed to capture some pretty compelling evidence. His _audience_ would be happy, though he’s sure the more skeptic fans are going to waste no time calling bullshit on the entire encounter. They wouldn’t if they had felt the planchette moving beneath their own fingers, or if they had felt the prickle of eyes on the back of their neck like he had.

Ryan shifts uncomfortably. Even now he can’t shake it – that peculiar itch, as though someone were watching him. Someone or some _thing_. 

Fuck. This is why he hadn’t wanted to do a demon episode. He had enough trouble keeping his wits about him when he was dealing with ghosts, though he had been managing fine on his own so far. After Brent had left the show he had been afraid that an audience wouldn’t respond as well to him going into these investigations solo, and though views had fluctuated for a while, the show’s momentum was still going strong. He was looking for a co-host to fill the vacancy Brent had left behind, and they had had plenty of candidates, but so far none of them had worked out. Ryan wanted someone he could mesh well with, someone the audience would respond favorably to, and so far no one who had applied fit that bill. 

At the moment he wishes he had given one of them more of a chance, if only to share the load of this latest investigation. TJ and the rest of the crew had seemed completely nonplussed by the entire experience, other than feeling a little creeped out by the forest and its rumors of cultist activity.

How any of them could watch those candles blowing out on the bridge and not lose their goddamn minds, Ryan has no clue. 

As if on cue, the bulb in the bedside lamp flickers, washing the room in dim, watery light. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters, scrambling to sit up while he keeps an eye on the lamp. He waits, not knowing what to expect, grasping for rationalizations to soothe the sudden spike of fear lancing through his stomach. Shitty hotel, shitty wiring, shitty lightbulbs. No reason to overreact. “Get your shit together, Bergara. It’s fine, it’s – “ 

The bulb shorts out in a sharp pop of noise that makes Ryan jump and suck in a breath, too startled to even scream. He presses his back against the headboard, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He can’t see a single goddamn thing, can barely _hear_ anything either, not over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He never should have come here, never should have fucked with that goddamn bridge – 

A low whistle penetrates the silence, bringing his thoughts to a screeching halt. “I really did a number on you, didn’t I?”

Ryan yelps, jerking his head toward the sound of the voice. It’s pointless; he still can’t see shit. “Who… Who’s there?”

A soft laugh answers him. There’s no malice to it, yet a chill rockets down Ryan’s spine, anyway. “Shouldn’t you know? You’re the one who came looking for me.”

The blood drains from Ryan’s face so fast he feels dizzy. “You’re… You’re the… “ The word sticks in his throat and refuses to budge, but he has no problem thinking it: _Demon_. 

Twin lights suddenly pierce the darkness, bright red and gleaming, and _close_.

_Not lights_ , Ryan’s mind supplies, the only clear thought able to punch through the rush of static in his head. _Eyes_.

“ _JesusfuckingChrist_.” If he were any less scared out of his fucking mind he might have been embarrassed by the high-pitched squeak his voice has become; as it is, the only thing Ryan can process are the red eyes peering down at him, far too close to his bed for comfort. He claws his way free of the sheets and nearly brains himself on the bedside table trying to get away, crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and twisted bed sheets. He shuffles backwards until he can’t anymore, his back flush with the wall, heartbeat thundering in his ears. Would anyone get here in time if he screamed? Would it even fucking matter?

“Careful,” the voice cautions. The red eyes bob in the darkness, drifting closer, until Ryan has to crane his neck to keep them in his sights. He presses back against the wall, as if he can just disappear through it if he tries hard enough, but there’s nowhere he can go. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat, though as it escapes it sounds more like a sob. “W-what are you doing here?” he gasps, voice reedy and thin. 

The bulb in the bedside lamp flares to life. Ryan flinches away from the light, his eyes burning, though that minor discomfort pales in comparison to the fear flooding his veins as he finally gets a good look at his intruder. 

At first he’s not sure what he’s a looking at – a man, certainly. Or, seemingly. Tall and thin, his cheeks and chin peppered with stubble. Messy, windswept hair. Glasses perched on his nose. Ryan gets caught up on that little detail for half a second – it’s a trait so painfully ordinary, so _human_ , that it’s made more surreal by its sheer normality – until he’s arrested once again by those eyes, blood red irises surrounding pitch black pupils, trained on him. 

The man grins, his teeth bared in a razor-sharp smile. “Don’t you remember, Ryan?” he asks, the skin beneath his red eyes crinkling. “You invited me.”


	2. fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? It's a freaking miracle.

Ryan’s eyes burn. He stares unseeing at his laptop screen, where footage from the Old Alton Bridge waits to be poured through. The notebook splayed open on his desk remains empty, free of the notes he would usually be scribbling. His head aches with an oncoming migraine.

All around him the office is abuzz with the clack of keys and muffled voices, the usual cacophony of a Monday afternoon. Some of his coworkers had attempted to draw him into conversation earlier, asking about the latest Unsolved episode and how his investigation over the weekend had gone, but he’d only been able to offer monosyllabic responses. Eventually they had given up and left him alone, but not without sending some significantly concerned looks his way. Ryan’s not surprised; he had done his best to act normally, but there was no hiding the shadows beneath his eyes or the haggard pallor of his skin. His reflection in the bathroom mirror that morning had been shocking, to say the least.

It's easy to blame his current state on the investigation, when anyone asks. He’s usually a little withdrawn after his trips, anyway, so focused on reviewing footage and crafting the newest episode that things like food and rest and actual human interaction tend to fall by the wayside.

He glances around, making sure no one is paying any attention to him, and pulls up his latest google search. He’d spent the bulk of the morning plugging in various permutations of _demon possession_ into the search engine and wading through the flood of results, most of them useless or outright ridiculous. It’s impossible to separate the legitimate sources from the frauds, and by two o’clock his headache has grown so severe that he can practically feel his temples pulsing.

“You know those are all bullshit, right?”

Ryan yelps, vaulting away from his desk. He nearly goes toppling to the floor, and would have, were it not for the foot hooking in the leg of his chair and locking it in place.

“You okay, Ryan?” Jen asks him, peering over at him from her own desk.

Ryan shoots her a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, clenching his fingers around the edge of his desk to hide how badly he’s trembling. “I’m good, yeah. Sorry, just – reviewing footage from the bridge, you know?”

Jen winces in sympathy. “This one was a doozy, huh?”

Ryan tries to laugh; it comes out more like a choked wheeze. “You could say that.”

“Well, take it easy, okay? No one’s gonna blame you for taking a break.”

He nods, not trusting his voice, and turns back to his screen. He refuses to glance to his left, refuses to acknowledge the presence that has taken up residence there, leaning casually against his desk and studying him with such obvious amusement that Ryan can feel his hackles rising.

“The silent treatment, still?” The voice is far too familiar, a soft rasp that makes gooseflesh flare along the skin of Ryan’s arms, not because there’s anything particularly strange about the tone or cadence but because he’s _the only one who can fucking hear it_. “That’s kinda rude, man. I really thought we had something.”

Ryan grits his teeth, mindlessly scrolling through tabs on his screen and not processing a single thing.

A sigh drifts from somewhere above his head. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? It’s cool, I’m an easy-going guy. Always up for a challenge.”

Ryan’s jaw aches, a harsh breath escaping his nose. He refuses to give the – the _thing_ the satisfaction of a response, and so he stares hard at his screen, silent, until the smudge of red plaid he can see in his periphery disappears.

He waits, blinking rapidly to clear the dry, stinging sensation from his eyes, and risks a glance to the side of his desk. It’s empty.

_Thank fucking god_ , he thinks, his shoulders dropping as the tension bleeds out of him. He rubs at his eyes with a slightly clammy palm, the words on his screen swimming for a moment as his exhaustion catches up to him. Jesus Christ, he’s tired.

Sudden pressure along his shoulders tears a gasp from his throat. He jerks his head from left to right, his stomach sinking as he sees the hands gripping his shoulders, long fingers topped with sharp, black nails tapping along his collarbone.

“You know what we need?” At the sound of the voice, fear overrides Ryan’s caution. He finds his head tipping back, his breath sticking in his throat at the sight of a crooked grin and red eyes peering down at him. It’s the same face he had been confronted with back in his hotel room in Texas, the same face that had haunted his dreams since returning to L.A.

It’s _real_. Not a hallucination, not a fever dream, not his imagination. He can feel the prick of nails through his t-shirt, can feel the warmth of the man’s – the _demon’s_ – body at his back. He can even smell him, a peculiar mix of smoke and pine and something sharper, colder, like a forest fire left to burn in winter.

“A heart to heart,” the demon continues, red eyes gleaming behind his clear frame glasses. “That’s what we need. I’d say it’s way overdue, wouldn’t you? Communication is the key to any successful partnership, after all.”

“Partnership?” Ryan murmurs, almost unconsciously. He’s distracted by the glow of those eyes, how they can switch from bright to rust red in a heartbeat. He’s distracted by the small, dark horns peeking out from messy hair, curling out from the demon’s head and ending in points that are more rounded than sharp.

The demon grins, exposing sharp teeth. “He speaks! Now there’s some progress!” He seems so genuinely delighted that Ryan doesn’t even know how to respond, other than to swallow against the dryness of his throat and try not to stare too long at the pointed ends of the those teeth. “Yes, a partnership! A mutually beneficial partnership. You help me, I help you. Everybody wins! What do ya say?”

Ryan parts his lips. “I – “ he starts, unsure what he even hopes to say. There’s no such thing as a partnership with a fucking _demon_ , let alone a mutually beneficial one. He wavers, uncomfortably aware of the sharp nails resting against his collarbone, and shoots a nervous glance at the rest of the office. No one’s paying any attention to him, but that won’t last long if he keeps this up. “I can’t… talk. Not here.”

The demon glances around at the smattering of people going about their business and makes a soft “Ah” sound, as if he’s just now coming to that same conclusion. “Later, then.”

In lieu of anything else to do or say, unsure what may or may not set the demon off, Ryan nods, nervous sweat beading along his forehead.

He jumps as the demon grins, patting his shoulders twice before spinning around. “Lookin’ forward to it, bud!” he calls over his shoulder. Ryan watches him stride out of the office without a backwards glance, whistling a jaunty tune, and marvels at the fact that no one – not even the people he passes right by – even gives the demon a second look.

He turns back to his screen. He can see the glare of his reflection in the glass, his eyes twice their normal size, lips parted and bloodless. He looks like he’s just seen a fucking ghost.

_You’re losing it, Bergara_ , he tells himself, pressing his shaking hands to his face, feeling the rasp of three-day stubble and the remnants of nervous sweat. _Get a fucking grip_.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Ryan attempts to make some headway into compiling clips for the newest episode of Unsolved, but by the time he leaves the office, he doesn’t have much to show for his efforts. Jen catches him at the door and asks him again if he’s okay; he’s grateful for her concern, but he has no idea how to tell her anything without coming across as a complete lunatic, so instead he blames a lack of sleep for his distraction all day and promises her to rest as soon as he gets home.

As Ryan shoulders into his apartment half an hour later, however, and spots the demon stretched out on his couch, his knees hooked over the arm because his legs are too long to fit otherwise, he sends a silent apology to Jen and hopes that she doesn’t take it personally when he comes into the office tomorrow looking worse.

“Ah, you’re finally home.” The demon swings his legs over the arm of the couch, clapping his hands together. “Ready to hash things out?”

Ryan raises a hand, taking a deep breath as he approaches the living room. “I have some… questions, first,” he begins. His knees feel like jelly as he awaits a response, half-expecting the demon to rip him apart for his impudence. All he gets is a raised eyebrow and a casual ‘go on’ gesture, the demon crossing one long leg over the other and peering curiously at him. Ryan takes the plunge. “What do I call you?” he asks. “Do you prefer the Goatman, or – ?”

The demon scoffs. “Oh, I chased him off ages ago,” he says, running a hand back through his hair. It musses up the strands even more, his horns nearly lost in the mess. “He’ll probably come crawling back now that I’ve vacated the premises, though. Total amateur, you know. No vision at all. He thought the height of entertainment was tossing stones at people and pushing them into the creek. Crotchety old man.”

Ryan gapes. There was nothing about that explanation that he had been expecting, and it takes a few moments to process it all. “I – Okay. If you’re not the Goatman, then who… ?”

“You can call me Shane,” the demon answers, tossing Ryan a sloppy salute. “Pleasure to meet you, Ryan Bergara.” Hearing his name from the demon’s – from Shane’s? – lips rockets Ryan back to that night on the bridge, to the moment he’d brushed away that bit of salt (breaking the circle, _opening a doorway_ , his mind whispers) and spoken to what he had thought was the Goatman.

_”My name is Ryan. Can you tell me your name?”_

He feels sick. Names have power; they have _intent_. He had known that, and yet he had offered his own as if it weighed nothing, had _been_ offering it, every single time he stepped onto haunted ground or delved into spirit-invested locations. This – all of this – was his own damn fault.

Shane continues, as if unaware of Ryan’s inner turmoil or just uncaring of it. “And now that the introductions have been made, are there any more burning questions you’d like answered?”

Only one, though he’s afraid to ask it. “What do you want?”

Shane smiles – not the razor-sharp grin Ryan has become accustomed to, but a soft curl of his lips, inherently pleased and obviously amused. “You’re the one that came looking for me, Ryan. What did _you_ want?”

Ryan fidgets with his keys, still clutched in his hand. “I wanted proof. Evidence.”

“That demons are real?”

“Demons, ghosts, the supernatural. That’s what I do, what I’m _trying_ to do.”

Shane nods, leaning back against the couch. “I can help you.”

Ryan makes a noise, a soft murmur of disbelief. “How? No one in the office could even see you.”

Shane wheezes, the skin beneath his eyes crinkling in mirth. Ryan takes a step back, more startled than he should be by the reaction. Like that night in the hotel, there’s no trace of malice in it. It’s just… happy.

“I’m not gonna reveal myself to just anybody, man,” Shane says, his words colored with remnants of laughter. “I like my privacy.”

Ryan eases closer, taking a seat in the chair by the couch. He has a clear line of sight to the front door and his guest, something that gives him a modicum of ease. “Then, how?”

“I’ve seen your show,” Shane tells him. “Your ‘evidence,’” he adds, complete with air quotes.

Ryan bristles. It’s an automatic response to his more skeptic viewers and the people who scoff at his belief of the supernatural. He can’t suppress it, has never been able to – not even, it seems, in the presence of a demon.

“What’s wrong with my evidence? I’ve captured plenty of compelling proof. Shadow people, footsteps, EVPs. The spirit box sessions alone – “

“Not compelling,” Shane interrupts, shaking his head. “Not in the slightest. There’s nothing supernatural about old pipes creaking and houses settling.” He makes a face, shooting Ryan a sour look. “And don’t even get me started on that hell box. My ears are still fucking ringing.”

Ryan’s mouth falls open. “How can you even – You’re a fucking _demon_. A real, flesh and blood supernatural entity. That _I_ found. How can you sit there and say that I’ve never captured any compelling evidence of spirit activity – ?”

“Because I’m a fucking _demon_ ,” Shane replies, smirking. Ryan’s ire is so deep that he barely even flinches at the hint of sharp teeth he can see between Shane’s parted lips. “I think I trust my expertise more than yours.”

Ryan’s eyes narrow. What a _dick_. “Is there a point to you insulting me, or are you just getting off on it?” It’s a surprisingly bold question considering he’s spent the bulk of the last few days scared out of his mind of this guy, but something about him, something about his cocky smirk and the ease with which he’d denied Ryan’s work just rubs Ryan the wrong fucking way, his annoyance overwhelming his fear.

If anything, Shane’s smirk just grows wider. “There it is,” he muses. “That spark. I knew it was in there somewhere, under all that fear and bluster.”

“Bluster?” Ryan sputters. Shane ignores him.

“If it’s evidence you’re after,” he says, “then I can help you find it. _Actual_ evidence, not just haunted house parlor tricks masquerading as proof. I’m talking the real deal, baby.”

Despite himself, something like excitement begins to build in the pit of Ryan’s stomach, alongside his fear and the remains of his annoyance. It’s a dizzying cocktail, and it does nothing to help his lingering exhaustion or the headache that has been pressing at the backs of his eyes for hours, but he finds himself leaning forward, wanting to hear more, anyway.

“And you would do this… what, out of the goodness of your heart?”

Shane wheezes, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re a funny guy, Ryan Bergara, did you know that?”

Ryan rolls his eyes. The more time he spends in Shane’s presence, the more his self-preservation dips in favor of pure, unbridled irritation. “Okay, asshole, spit it out. What do you want in exchange?”

Shane tilts his head, considering. Ryan struggles not to fidget beneath that red-eyed stare. “Your fear.”

“My… fear?” He can feel his eyebrows shooting into his hairline, confusion coloring his words. “What does that even mean? What, you want to… scare me?”

Shane gives him a look. “I feed on fear,” he explains, as nonchalantly as if he were discussing the weather. “It’s what drew me to you in the first place. Do you know how many wannabe investigators and so-called seasoned ghost hunters have gone out to that bridge? How many cocky assholes and bored thrillseekers and – “ Shane makes a face. “ – _teenagers_ have traipsed all over it late at night, every single one of them brimming with fear? Why do you think I booted that hoof-footed idiot out in the first place? The place was a veritable smorgasbord.”

Ryan could react to that explanation in a myriad of ways – fear and unease being at the forefront, though he settles on confusion for the sake of his own sanity. “Why follow me then? What’s so different about me?”

“I could sense you coming from a mile away, Ryan. I’ve never come across someone with so much _fear_. It was like a beacon. And yet – “ Shane whistles lowly, as if he were impressed. “And yet you invited me in, anyway. Your desire for my presence was just as strong as your fear of it.”

Ryan makes a face. “Don’t call it desire. That makes it sound like I was looking for some kind of weird supernatural booty call. Which I wasn’t. Just to be clear.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Shane remarks, smirking at Ryan’s affronted look. “So, what do you say? I help you find all the ghostie evidence you want, and you let me feed on your fear. Win-win.”

Ryan chews his lip. The answer should be obvious – a huge, resounding _FUCK NO_ , yet there’s no denying the spark of intrigue in his gut. The want.

“Would it hurt?” he asks quietly, forcing himself to hold Shane’s gaze. How do you figure out if you can trust a demon? How can you tell if one is lying?

Shane shakes his head, his expression strangely soft. “Not a bit. You wouldn’t feel a thing.” He stretches out his hand, slow and easy, as if he were approaching a skittish animal.

“What do you say, Bergara?” he asks, wiggling his fingers. His black nails gleam in the overhead light. “Do we have a deal?”

Ryan stares at Shane’s hand, stares at his strange red eyes and the horns poking free of his perpetually messy hair, stares at the fine-boned hand stretched out to him –

– and then he thinks of evidence – _real_ , tangible evidence, the kind that would thrill his audience and confound his skeptics, the kind that would prove, once and for all, that he was right in believing in the supernatural all these years.

And then he stops thinking. He reaches for Shane’s hand instead, shivering as sharp nails brush against his skin, and he says, “Deal.”


End file.
